what comes

Drifts of snowdrops, moist gray of approaching rainstorm, dust blowing across the highway, the shy bridge flashing its green strands of light …

I need the company of a poet in the office. And a book. And a table in the pavilion, in a sunny spot. And a few moments to myself. Coffee. Scraps of accomplishment. A fantasy wind of brief scope in a minor key.

Approaching everything from the side. Merging, with a blind spot in my rear view mirror. Observing the chain link fence, woven with two separate handmade shrines of permanent flowers and leaves. Swerving.

Approaching nothingness when what I want is a grand moral vision.

Approaching sleep.